


A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Chapel...

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:56:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Holidays," John clips out. "Shit like this always happens on <i>holidays</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Chapel...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's sexy_right community for the "Put A Ring On It" challenge. :)

“So,” John says as he brushes a fine cloud of plaster dust off his sleeves, “there’s this thing you don’t know about me.”

Matt takes John’s reaching hand and lets him drag him out of the rubble, hacks out a blast of concrete residue and swipes a dirty hand over his face. On some level Matt knows he should be more freaked out than he actually is. After all, the building has basically collapsed around them, there’s a dude splayed on his back about five feet away that McClane actually killed using only a diamond stick pin, and about five bajillion dollars worth of precious jewels are scattered about his feet.

And his rental suit is ruined. Abe’s Formals is gonna want his head on a platter.

He stumbles over a large piece of what used to be Pandora’s front counter and collides with John’s chest, solid and firm, and does a quick pat-down just to make sure that McClane is actually alive and whole (and that there aren’t any exposed circuit boards or loose wires, because after this he’s pretty sure John is actually a cyborg.) When his fingers brush against the handkerchief in John’s pocket he snags it, dislodging not only a flutter of silk but also a puff of dust and several small pebbles.

It was a really big explosion.

“Yeah?” Matt says. He coughs into the handkerchief, looks up in time to see John squinting out through the broken plate-glass window, head cocked to catch the distant sound of sirens. There’s nothing yet, and in Matt’s experience the cavalry always arrives about five minutes too late anyway. “If you’re going to tell me you’re actually from Krypton, I figured that one out already.”

“Nah,” John says, although from the look on his face Matt’s not even sure that John knows what Krypton is. But then, this is also the guy who thought Spiderman was one of the Avengers, so it shouldn’t surprise him. He’s opening his mouth to explain about Jor-El and the unstable radioactive cores of fictional planets when John looks away from the window, scrubs a hand over his jaw and fixes him with his _this is serious business, kid_ face. He hasn’t seen that look since The Great Christmas Tree Fire of Ought-Nine (totally not his fault, the wiring in the house is _old_ , he _told_ Warlock not to plug in that fifth string of lights, and if Warlock is now banned from setting one molecule in the house _that_ isn’t his fault either, damnit) so he straightens up and does his best to push all thoughts of superheroes out of his head. John looks more like James Bond than Superman today anyway, even if his tux _is_ covered in plaster.

Yeah, John’s totally not getting his deposit back either.

“The thing is, Matthew,” John says, “I’m jinxed.”

 _Matthew_? John calls him _Matty_ in the bedroom, _Matt_ when he wants to get his attention, and _kid_ any other time. If John is pulling the _Matthew_ out of retirement then he must think this is _really_ serious. Even the Great Christmas Tree Fire of Ought-Nine didn’t rate more than a _Matt_.

Of course, it could also be that John is delirious. He did crack his head pretty hard when the vault shot into the air.

Matt’s feeling a bit woozy himself, and his knee – normally perfectly okay, amazing what thousands of dollars of fucking therapy can do – is sending out those tiny flares of pain that usually mean there will be some oxycontin in his near future (usually accompanied by lying in bed with a damp washcloth on his forehead and John kneeling on the end of the bed carefully massaging his calf, and sometimes ending with warm wet suction on his dick that makes him forget all about his stupid knee.) Since the meds are at home and there’s no bed nearby, Matt just eases himself against the nearest support beam that _isn’t_ listing at a forty-five degree angle. He cocks his head.

“Jinxed,” he repeats slowly.

“Holidays,” John clips out. “Shit like this always happens on _holidays_. Christmas. Labour Day. _Independence Day_.”

“Right,” Matt says. He still occasionally wakes up from nightmares about that fourth of July. And after it became clear that not only was his goopy, ridiculous, asinine crush on John actually reciprocated in kind (proven to him in John’s own gruff inimitable style, of course – Matt got hard for two weeks every time he even looked at the kitchen counter) he might have done a little research on Detective John McClane. He discovered that there was a very weird correlation between public holidays, John, and psychotic terrorists-slash-thieves, and Gabriel was right -- John really _does_ always end up in the wrong place at the wrong time. But—

“Yeah, wait, no,” Matt says. When John sighs and opens his mouth, he raises a hand to forestall the protest. “I concede the connection. You plus public holiday equals exploding helicopters and bombed-out subway stations and… giant glass shards in your feet, whatever. Got it. But John, this isn’t a holiday. Not even one of the made up ones like Talk Like A Pirate Day. It’s just… Saturday.”

“Yes,” John says grimly.

“Right,” Matt says. Except… no. Sometimes talking with John makes his head hurt, even when they’re not discussing Ann Coulter. He glances up at the ceiling, since the creaking and groaning from what little remains of the roof above him is making it kind of hard to concentrate, what with the whole possibility of imminent collapse and all. Also? Knee. Hurting. Really a lot. So he thinks he’s got plenty of reasons for not completely following the conversation. “What?”

John flicks his own gaze to the crumbling ceiling, but Matt thinks in John’s case it’s less _assessing the damage_ and more _praying to the Gods for guidance_. When John’s attention returns to him and he’s not frantically waving him toward the window or diving for cover, Matt feels his shoulders relax. Apparently the ceiling isn’t going to cave in anytime soon.

“It’s not a holiday for us _now_ ,” John says slowly. “But it will be.”

One thing that Matt has learned from living with John is that he sees the world from a slightly unusual angle. Since Matt also sees the world from what others may consider a skewed perspective, this normally works out well. Except on times like this when John… apparently loses his mind.

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Matt says. “Because _next_ year we’re going to be celebrating this day, _this_ year the… what? The universe made sure you were driving down the street at the exact moment that a bunch of skinny guys in really unflattering catsuits were scaling down the wall of the biggest diamond wholesaler in the tri-state area?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Okay. So he _was_ pretty occupied with descrambling the code on the bomb during most of the action, but Matt’s still fairly certain John didn’t hit his head _that_ hard.

“John,” Matt says, “you… realize you’re crazy, right?”

“This from the guy who thinks KFC is breeding mutant chickens,” John mutters.

“Genetically engineered, McClane!” Matt splutters. “There are _photos_ \--“

“I’m just saying, kid,” John interrupts. “Maybe hitching your wagon to me ain’t the smartest thing you’ll ever do.”

The happy return of _kid_ to John’s vocabulary is almost enough to temper the rest of the statement, and frankly John mentions the too old/too battered/too bruised-for-you shit often enough that Matt usually just laughs it off (or crawls into John’s lap and makes him shut up, which is way better.) This time, though, John’s got that look on his face that he gets when he comes across old photos of him and Holly looking cheesily happy and he starts thinking too hard, and Matt recognises that probably a lot of tongue isn’t going to cut it.

“Maybe--” John starts.

“Listen,” Matt says. He pushes away from the support beam, and to his credit only sways on his feet once before his knee firms up, because seriously? Falling on his ass just before giving a big speech would not be good. “You say you’re jinxed? Fine. Then I’m jinxed too. And you’re _lucky_ I’m jinxed right along with you, because you know what, McClane? It was me that stopped that download on the fourth and if it wasn’t for that Gabriel would’ve just killed Lucy so really, that means I saved your daughter twice that day, which, wow, I just now realized. And then today? That bomb? It was me that… all right, maybe I didn’t stop it completely, but I slowed it down!”

“How do you slow down an explosion, kid?”

“What, you want explanations now? I slowed it down, McClane, trust me. My point is--”

“Oh, there’s a _point_ now.”

“My _point_ is that we go together. We fit. We’re a team, and I’m sticking around. We’re like yin and yang, or salt and pepper, or peanut butter and jelly, or… okay, you’re smiling.”

Matt’s the first to admit that sometimes when he gets on a roll he kind of loses track of things. Like time, or his surroundings, or the reason he was talking in the first place. And now he’s got a full head of steam and at least another dozen examples of compatible pairs on the tip of his tongue, but a couple of years of living with John have also taught him to know when to stop when he’s ahead. He shuffles through the debris to get closer to John instead, leans heavily on his chest when he gets there. He lifts his head just as John dips his, and they meet in the middle with a kiss that tastes of concrete and blood and ashes, and beneath it all it tastes of John and that’s all he cares about.

“You got a way with words, kid,” John says when they part.

Matt really would roll his eyes, but he figures at this point it would just be a cliché. And when John slings an arm around his shoulder, he’s happy to pretend that John is just helping him out of the wreckage and that it has absolutely nothing to do with John needing support for his bad shoulder. He lets John step over the threshold first, then glances down onto the floorboards when his foot slips out from under him. Walking over the debris was bad enough, but the other stuff…

“Wait,” Matt says, leaning down to scoop up a flawless diamond. The thing is easily as big as his thumb, and he bounces it in his palm appraisingly, cocks his head to watch John through his bangs. “You know, just one of these could pay for the whole shindig.”

“Matt,” John warns.

There’s that _Matt_ again. He knew it was too good to be true. He reluctantly lets the diamond slip from his grasp, watches it roll to stop amongst a pool of others just like it. He sighs, almost stumbles, and this time when John’s arm comes around his shoulder it really is to hold him steady and lead him out into the light.

For the first time Matt realizes that a small crowd has gathered in the street, gawking and pointing, in front of the just-arriving patrol cars. John’s already dug his shield out of his pocket – seriously, who carries his shield in a tux? Only John. He can’t wait to tell Lucy -- and when one of the uniforms jumps out to talk to him Matt wanders a little further away to survey the damage. His mouth drops open.

Big? No, it was a _huge_ explosion.

He’s still gazing up at the jagged spear that used to be Pandora’s south wall when he realizes that John’s given a wave to one of the Suits and has begun weaving his way through the cluster of onlookers. Matt’s pretty sure the pain in his leg is reaching critical mass, but he hurries to catch up anyway.

“There’s a Talk Like A Pirate Day?” John asks over his shoulder.

“Arrrr, matey. Wanna shiver me timbers?”

“Jeeeesus,” John groans. “Did you ever get laid before I came along?”

“Not often and not well,” Matt admits. He squints up at the sun, but he’s not exactly a boy scout (he got kicked out of the boy scouts by violating that ‘morally straight’ code about fifty times, also not his fault, he tried to talk to them about that little thing called _freedom of expression_ and the fascists kicked him out anyway) and he has no idea what time it is. “We’re gonna be so late.”

John stops and leans against the car, folding his arms across his chest, and as Matt approaches, listing a little to one side (stupid knee) he takes a moment to appreciate the undeniable fact that John McClane in a ripped, tattered and filthy tux is _still_ hot. No surprise _there_.

“Peas and carrots,” John says when he reaches his side.

“Itchy and Scratchy.”

The look on John’s face makes it obvious that he has no idea what Matt is talking about, but he counters with one of his own anyway. “Rock and roll.”

“Unless you’re talking about Fogerty,” Matt says. He can’t stop himself from wrinkling his nose. “Seriously, I would rather have a full frontal lobotomy than… no, I would rather be staked in the sand, naked, and surrounded by fire ants who… no, I would rather—“

“So no _Bad Moon Rising_ for the first dance?”

“Hah, funny,” Matt says. “Wait, we have to dance?”

“Stick with me, and I’ll teach ya everything you need to know,” John says. He lifts a dirt-smudged brow. “We’re a team, right?”

Matt’s previous attempts at dancing have been described by people who know (Warlock) as full body convulsions, so he can’t help but feel sceptical. But the rest of it? Yeah, he’s totally down with that. He steps closer, leans against John toe to chest, and smiles. “I’m gonna hold you to that, McClane,” he says.

John just smirks and wraps a warm hand around the nape of his neck to tug him in.

“Cheese and crackers,” Matt says.

John laughs against his lips. “C’mon and marry me, kid.”


End file.
